The rope around my neck is evil-old,
As grown as sin, as wrung as elder wood.
Neck to the height of hell, the tower held
In sepulchre, the overhead as old.
I wore around my neck the execution,
The weight of gold, the burden of the passion.
Crossed in gold – embossed in sacrifice,
I wore the resurrection and the life.
I am a recovering Catholic, or rather a Catholic in remission. I do still hunger for the gorgeous symbolism, and the sense of history which clings to the religion. I think the exploration of that symbolism is really where I got started with this one.